We swam back to the dock and climbed the metal ladder. Vivi laid out her beach towel in the sun and I dried off, then unfolded the lounge chair and grabbed my sketch pad and pens.
“Should I pose?” Vivi arched her back and extended a leg to the sky, rounding her lips in an exaggerated way.
“No, just lie however you’re comfortable and let me work.”
Vivi saluted me, then settled on the towel.
I put my pen to the pad and began by shading from the dock toward Vivi’s body. I didn’t want the hard, graphic lines of an outline, but something softer, and more organic. Not such a difficult task with a subject matter like Vivi. As I hatched and crosshatched my way across the page, I soaked in all of Vivi’s details. The curve of her breasts and hips. The medium swell of stomach Vivi had a love-hate relationship with, but I found perfect. Every detail was utterly feminine and beautiful and even now, close to two years later, I marveled at having a girlfriend like Vivi. My pen became an extension of my feelings, the love for my subject matter pouring onto the page. As I worked, I paid attention to my mood, my heart, my psyche. Vivi was right, I had changed.
When I finished the drawing, I cleared my throat.
Vivi cracked her eyes open, then lifted her hand to shade them from the sun. “Can I see?”
I flipped the pad outward and Vivi was quiet long enough to worry me. “Is it that bad?” There was a glisten in Vivi’s eyes. “Are you crying?”
Vivi nodded and wrapped her arms around herself. “You made me look so beautiful.”
I slid off the chair and down onto the towel next to her. I wrapped my arms around Vivi and kissed her cheek. “I draw what I see.”
Vivi nestled her head into the space between my cheek and shoulder. “You know, I’m going to marry you one day.”
“Not if I marry you first.” It was our running joke. But today, I really hoped it would turn out to be true.
42
Now: Five Weeks, Four Days After
McGovern has two boys blocked into a corner, his marine sergeant yell making the cords of his throat pop out. I’ve learned to block it out, to let my mind wander, even if it leads to dangerous thoughts—like Vivi and the future we’ll never have. When Deuces raps on my desk and points to the door, I jump and quick wipe my eyes before anyone makes an asinine comment. Swaley stands outside, a folder in hand, her eyes bugging at the sight of McGovern’s classroom management techniques.
I hop up, torn between interrupting him to tell him where I’m going, or taking my chances and leaving. When I see spittle form at the corner of his mouth, and Chuck Norris’s stare glowering at me from the poster on the back wall, I figure begging forgiveness might be easier than asking permission.
I pull the door shut behind me and follow Swaley to the bench outside the classroom.
“Is he always like that?” The guidance counselor tries to peer back around me to peek through the door’s window.
“Sort of. But it works, I guess. We all get our work done.”
She half smiles. Not a good sign. “I understand that you’d like to enroll in computer courses for the spring.”
I sit up straighter. “Yes.”
She pulls my transcript out of the folder and with it, a list of required coursework and credit hours. “You’re in good shape to do it. Really you only need two more courses to be able to graduate. One of those is a science elective, and there are plenty of opportunities online. Any thoughts about what else you’d like to take? There are more electives available than at the high school.”
I was ready for this. “Yes, I’d like to take an art history course.”
Swaley nods and jots down a note on her list. “That should work. Let me tell you how the online courses are handled. You’ll be placed into the classroom of a teacher for their planning period, but it’s very self-motivated type of work. Your teacher-of-record, the one who grades your work, is actually online as well. The teacher you sit with will do your attendance.”
“So, I’ll still be able to work at Cabinetworks?”
Swaley smiles, then her smile drops, as McGovern flings open the door and cranes his neck out. When he sees who I’m with, the fire in his eyes dims and he acknowledges me with a grunt before stepping back into the room and pulling the door shut.
She shakes her head. “Close call, huh?”
My laugh surprises me. “Yeah, you could say that.”
She continues. “I’ve spoken to the management there and it seems that they are willing to take you on board as a work-study intern for next semester. This semester you will have to return to the classes you left at the time of your suspension.”
“What?” A second ago I thought we were talking about me staying with McGovern, but I’m hearing her say something completely different.
“Was I unclear?” Swaley slides the paperwork back into her folder.
“I’m not clear about going back to main campus. I thought I would stay here. Finish out here.”
She shakes her head. “Oh no. It’s not necessary and we all think it’s better if you return to Grady.”
Frustration eats at me. “Did my mother talk to you?” I’ve done everything she’s asked of me with applications. I’m not quite finished, but she knows I’ve made a ton of progress this week. “If I’m at main campus, I have no way to get to Cabinetworks.”
Swaley frowns. “I haven’t spoken to your mother, but I’d tell her the same thing. Transportation will be on you for work study. If you have no way to get to the internship, we’ll have to get you into other classes. There’s no bus to deliver work-study students. And we are certain you will be better off back on main campus.”
A minute ago, I’d been so psyched thinking this would actually happen, but now the future looks as awful as when I got in-school suspension. Even more so, because I was finally starting to feel the tiniest bit of hope for happier days.
She stands. “We’ll see you Monday. Same schedule as before. Your teachers have all said you’ve done a remarkable job of staying up with the curriculum, so you shouldn’t have too much trouble easing back in. Stop by my office if you need anything, and do let me know as soon as possible about your transportation issue so we can fix next semester’s schedule if this won’t work.”
When I slink back into the classroom, everything’s calmed down and everyone is nose to their papers, at least pretending to get some kind of work done. I glance at McGovern to make sure we’re cool. He points to my desk.
Deuces turns slightly when I sit down and whispers low, “You sprung?”
“Monday,” I say. I hadn’t mentioned my wanting to stay to anyone but Mom and Nina, because I know for some of these guys, being here is akin to prison and I don’t want to make light of their situations.
“Damn,” he says. “You’re going to make me all teary. Hanging out with you again was cool.”
“It will be like middle school all over, unless you text me sometime.”
“Two-way street, lady lover. But yeah, I’ll connect. It’d be cool for you to meet Tonya.”
“That’d be awesome.” I hope we both follow through and don’t let our lack of daily proximity keep us from staying in touch.
McGovern taps his desk and we both shut up.
I can’t believe it. Tomorrow’s my last day at the forge.
That afternoon Nina picks me up to take me to the VA for my therapy with the littles. Good thing, because I’m too pissed at Mom to be civil. She could have at least called and talked to Mrs. Swaley. Pleaded my case in her gonna-be-a-lawyer way. She gave me hurdles to clear and I’m more than halfway there. Where’s the good faith?
Mr. A has switched it up a little bit and now we all have beanbag chairs to chill in but a bigger part of the floor is left open. He’s got cumbia playing on the tape player and I can’t help myself when I start moving my hips and stepping my legs backward.
“Ah, a fan.”
“Yeah. My grandfather and my cousins taught me when I was little. We always
have these barbecues when I’m in Texas, different from here—down there it’s just grilling out, no sauce. But the music is always playing and there’s always dancing in the carport. My cousins complain that it’s old people music, but secretly we all love it.”
Darla comes to the door, holding her mom’s hand. I motion for her to join me and I show her a simple four-beat rhythm that she picks up on superfast. As the rest of the kids file in and Mr. A greets the parents, more kids join in and follow me. The song switches and now we’re all standing in a big circle, moving together. But I see what Mr. A is doing here. There’s not a frown in the room. Everyone is smiling, myself included. It’s hard to let grief weigh you down when you’re wiggling your hips.
Later, when he pulls out the drawing boards and markers with the assignment to draw a musical memory, I circle the room, helping the kids. The markers feel almost foreign in my hands, I’ve refused them for so many weeks now. But as I show kids how to think about adjusting lines, or jump in to add something into their pictures at their request, there isn’t the leak of anguish onto the page. It’s just color and line and shape.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the point is not to stop doing the things that remind me of Vivi, but to find a way to ensure she lives through me, even if the future we painted together has been permanently gessoed over.
43
Now: Five Weeks, Four Days After (Night)
Cheyanne has Emma Watson in her arms as she looks over my shoulder at the computer screen. I have successfully completed applications for three of the small private colleges she brought me the brochures for. Nina helped me research the GI Bill my dad transferred to me before he died, and it turns out it will cover about two-thirds of my tuition cost per year at these schools. Combined with the results of my FAFSA, money shouldn’t be too big of an issue. Which is a huge relief.
None of them have great art departments though, so I’ve got two other schools I’m researching. The university in Asheville and the school in Illinois with the blacksmithing program.
“State is out?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I ditched my artwork. I have no portfolio. And the deadline’s next week.”
“What if you had a portfolio?”
I shake my head. “No. State was Vivi’s dream. Besides . . .” I pet the space between Emma Watson’s ears and she turns her face up toward me with a closed-eye smile. “I can’t even see myself on that campus without her.”
Cheyanne considers this. “You’re probably right. But what about that Carbondale school? Won’t you need a portfolio to get in there?”
“I don’t know. I need to call, couldn’t find anything on the website for the undergrad degree. It doesn’t look like it, but their deadline is over a month away. Now that I won’t have a job, because I don’t have a car, I will have more time to make art. But . . .” I sigh. “As much as I used to love to draw, Vivi’s death did kind of snuff out that candle. I’m just not inspired to do it. Not yet anyway.”
Cheyanne hands me Emma Watson and swivels around to the bag she brought over. “Well, in case you change your mind. I saved this.”
She pulls out the red folder I’d thrown in the trash the day I got sent to alternative school.
“How did you . . . ?”
“You were right outside my classroom door. I watched you, remember? The minute you left I pleaded a bathroom break and saved it. If not for you, for me. These are really good.”
I’ve already got the folder open and am flipping through the work. When I get to the portrait of Vivi on the dock, I still. She was so beautiful. It doesn’t seem possible that one minute she could be here, real, flesh and blood, and the next minute gone. Death is so weird. I look up with tear-glazed eyes. “Thanks, Chey. I’m happy you saved these. Saved me from my stupidity throwing them away.”
“Any kind of happy is good, right?”
I manage a weak smile in between cautious strokes down Emma Watson’s back, which she arches into with a manic twist of her tail before swatting my hand away. “Happy is good.” I’m not sure I’m really there, but I’m better than I was and Cheyanne did save my artwork for me.
“Well, hopefully you’ll be able to use them to get into one of these programs. I’m glad you’re back to wanting to do something.” Her voice is the gentlest I’ve ever heard it.
“It’s weird she’s gone isn’t it?”
Chey nods. “Yep. That first couple of weeks afterward, I’d walk into the classes we had together expecting her to be in her seat. I even had moments just thinking she was out sick, then I’d remember.”
“Me, too. I’d pick up my phone to call her or text and then I’d remember.”
We both sit with shoulders slumped until Chey sits up. “You’ve got three out of five done, and the last two seventy-five percent done. Yes?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Let’s call Levi and meet at the tracks.”
“You think?” Even though he and I left it on a good note, it still feels kind of awkward.
“Totally.” Cheyanne’s already got her phone out sending a text. It only takes a second before she gets an answer. I watch her brows furrow.
“Something wrong?”
She looks up. “He can’t join us because he’s out with Simone.”
“Simone?”
“First violin.”
“Cute?” I ask.
Cheyanne pecks at her phone’s screen, then flashes me a pic of a short-haired blond girl.
It makes me laugh. “I guess he had his fill of brunette rejection.” I open my phone and shoot him another text. Tell her we will kick her ass if she’s mean to you.
I get a smiley face in return.
“Stan’s?” Cheyanne asks.
“Rain check?” I look back at my computer screen. “I need to finish everything I can, then figure out what to say to my mom about school.”
Cheyanne hefts her bag. “She’s only doing what she thinks is best.”
I turn Chey’s own resting bitch stare back on her.
“Sorry.” She holds up her hands in surrender and backs toward my door. When she drops her hands, her voice gets quiet. “You’re not going to bug out on me again, are you? Because even if I get into Berklee and I’m freezing my fingers off in Boston, I need to know you and I will reconnect every single school holiday so I’m not stuck with my parents and my brothers.”
“We still have a whole semester and the entire summer.”
“I need a blood contract.”
“That sounds more like the Cheyanne I know.” I dig the Case knife out from my jeans pocket. “Blood swear?”
“Ew. Tetanus does not make for lasting friendships.”
“You’re no fun.”
She smirks. “That’s my line.” She winces. “Sorry, I know there’s a reason you’ve been no fun.”
“I can’t promise fun yet.”
“I know,” she says as she walks a few steps to the door. “But you can promise we’re good. From now on?”
“From now on,” I say. “I am officially finished with being a dick to you. You’re my best friend. I don’t want that to ever change.”
She steps back across the room and hugs me hard, then pulls away just as fast and makes for the door. I don’t follow her. Cheyanne likes her tears in private.
Around ten thirty, I see my mom’s headlights flicker across my window. I gather the printouts I’d made of my application confirmations and wait for her in the kitchen.
“You’re awake,” she says as she drops her keys, purse, and laptop bag on the table before pouring herself a glass of white wine.
I don’t say a word, simply spread out the four completed applications and the one for Carbondale still in progress across her things.
She sips and looks, picking up the papers and placing them down again. “One more to finish,” she says.
“I have to make a phone call to find out something first but then I’ll be done. Five schools just like you asked.” If she’s not going to bri
ng up State, I won’t either. She must understand why I can’t apply there.
Mom puts the last paper down. “Jess. I want you back at main campus.”
“But you said if I did this you’d talk to them. You of all people should know how hard it will be for me to go back there. I’m happy at the alternative school. I get to go to a job that I love and that I won’t get to do if I go back to Grady, because I don’t have a car and y’all are too busy to give me rides. Being the youngest sucks, I’m left with the scraps of your and Nina’s lives.”
Nina chooses that point to push in through the back door. She’s got a Stan’s to-go cup in her hand. “What about my life?”
“You’re spoiled, that’s all.”
Nina arches her eyebrows and looks at Mom for backup.
“Jessica Viola Perez.” Mom’s tone means I have it coming. “Your sister started babysitting for you and the neighbors when she was thirteen. She saved every dime until she could buy her car. I matched her one thousand dollars, just as I’ve promised you, but until this year you’ve shown no interest in working. This is life. Not privilege. And I’m sorry that transportation is an issue. And I’m completely empathetic to the emotional difficulty of returning to main campus. But it’s time for a reality check, Jess. You’ve got to figure out a way to live with your grief. Find times to put it on a shelf and times to take it off and when it sneaks up on you, as it’s prone to do, recognize it, acknowledge it, even give it a little hug like an old friend, then take a big deep breath and keep walking. You can’t avoid it.” She pauses and takes a sip of her wine.
“Now, as for your transportation issue, we are both happy to help you, when we can, but perhaps you should look for a job in the strip mall behind us, or some place your bike will take you, and when you’ve saved enough for your own vehicle, insurance, and gas, then you can work wherever you want.”
The Meaning of Birds Page 20
